O Holy Night
by Significant Owl
Summary: Christmas wishes lead to nocturnal adventures for Crabbe & Goyle. Warnings for very mild implied slashy inklings and silliness. Lots of silliness.


**O Holy Night**

**Or, All I Want for Christmas**

Gregory Goyle was bored.

So bored that he wouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning but for the unpleasant chafing in some rather sensitive places. So bored that he'd tried (and failed miserably) to come up with other words that meant _bored._ So bored that he was lying on the couch and playing with his food. His mother's perfectly pure blood would have frozen in absolute horror at this disrespect for the sustenance of life.

"But she's not here, is she," Goyle muttered, dangling a Chocolate Frog by its back legs. "And I'm not there."

And that was the whole problem, really, wrapped up in a bloody nutshell. Christmas hols were all very well and good for people whose parents weren't busy sharing eggnog and Christmas cheer with the Dark Lord. _They_ got wonderful food and presents and warm places to sleep. But for the unfortunate souls left behind in the dungeons, the hols were nothing short of misery.

"Goyle!"

He paused in the act of tickling a frog under its front - legpits? "Yeah, Crabbe?"

"What do you want for Christmas?"

Goyle blinked his dull eyes in his most thoughtful manner. There was a pause, in which Crabbe's feet got tired and he had to sit down. Finally, Goyle proclaimed, "I dunno."

Crabbe grunted trollishly, patted his foot, and grunted some more. "Aren't you going to ask what _I_ want, then?"

"Okay." Goyle bit off a wiggling leg. "What do you want, Crabbe?"

Crabbe sighed, eyes peering out almost dreamily from beneath his pudding-bowl fringe. "I want a night divine, like in that Muggle song. I want someone to fall on their knees. I want to hear the angel voices."

Goyle frowned his confusion. Crabbe cuffed him on the head. "I want something that begins with a _b_ and ends in _job_."

"I'm sorry, Crabbe, I just don't..."

Crabbe leaned in close, stopping just inches from Goyle's ear. "I WANT TO GET OFF!"

"Oh!" Goyle nodded. Now _that_ made a great deal of sense. "On your own, or with someone?"

"With someone, you git. That's what makes it Christmas rather than an ordinary Wednesday."

"Who with?"

Crabbe shrugged. "Whoever."

Goyle's eyes widened and his frown reappeared straight away. He weebled and wobbled to a sitting position, as far away from Crabbe as the couch would allow.

"Not with you, you great arse!" Crabbe rolled his eyes. "I'd prefer someone I _hadn't_ known since sproghood, thanks all the same."

Goyle's face cleared immediately. "Well. That's all right, then."

"So, are you coming?" Crabbe stood up and straightened his robes. "We can find someone for you, as well," he added magnanimously.

Goyle pondered his options. He could draw the Chocolate-Frog-eating process out for another hour or so, or he could go trolling for sex. As the decision was one that did not need to be made by his brain (and other organs were beginning to weigh in quite aggressively), he lumbered to his feet at once. "Let's go."

***********

The pair began huffing and puffing their way up the castle's main staircases a few minutes later. Since it was getting close to curfew, and they had the vague idea that school rules frowned upon sexual escapades, Crabbe and Goyle had decided to refer to each other only by codenames as a safety precaution. They were quite pleased with their cunning.

"So, Cra -- The Lobster," Goyle said, as they made their way upwards, "where are we going?"

Crabbe groaned. The responsibility that came with being the smart one could be positively overwhelming, sometimes. "Boil, Boil. _Where_ does all the action take place in this bloody castle?"

Goyle thought. "Wait, wait, I know this one... the Astronomy Tower?"

"Right you are."

They struggled up another flight in silence. "So... Are we just going to go up there and see if anyone will have us, then?"

Crabbe nodded. "They won't be able to resist our secret weapon." He fished a sprig of mistletoe out of his pocket proudly.

"Brilliant," Goyle breathed.

Two more flights went by, and Goyle finally found words for something that had been floating about in his head ever since the dungeons. "I haven't seen many witches about, over the hols," Goyle said slowly. "Are we... I mean, do we fancy..."

Crabbe stopped dead and grabbed his mate by the shoulders. "Listen," he said firmly. "What we're after, tonight, can be done quite well by girls, or boys, or," Crabbe's eyes gleamed, "if sweet Grindelwald smiles upon us, by both at the same time."

Goyle nodded, properly abashed. Crabbe was so _wise_. "Right. I knew that. Of course."

They made their way down a long corridor, sticking close to the walls and coming as close to slinking as was physically possible for wizards of their girth. They were just passing a portrait of an extremely large woman when something small and speedy bounced off Goyle's stomach.

"Ow!" Goyle massaged the offended area tenderly and began taking careful stock of the damage. He was interrupted by Crabbe's frantic elbow in his side. A Harry Potter-shaped lump had materialised from thin air on the floor in front of them.

Before Crabbe or Goyle could react in any useful way, Potter sprang to his feet and trained his wand on them. "Lost, are you? Or have you come up here looking for trouble?"

The Slytherins instinctively turned to that place between them where their leader usually stood. Finding no guidance, they turned back to Potter. It was strange, Goyle thought, receiving the full force of his glare. That was usually reserved for Draco.

"Go ahead," Potter said fiercely, glasses askew and black hair sticking up in every direction. "Give me a reason."

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a glance, then began backing away in a slow, clumsy kind of unison. "You're all right, mate," Crabbe whispered, in a tone he'd heard Hagrid use on his more dangerous pets (that was to say, all of them). "You're all right..."

When they finally rounded a corner and Potter was nowhere in sight, Crabbe and Goyle leaned their bulks against the wall and took deep, calming breaths. "It was rather cute," Goyle mused, "the way his eyes flashed."

Crabbe gripped Goyle by the forearm, hard. "Repeat after me," he said sternly. "I am a Slytherin."

"I am a Slytherin."

"May I meet a thousand fiery deaths - or Weasleys - before I ever use the word _cute_ again."

"May I meet - could you repeat that?"

Crabbe groaned. He was seriously beginning to regret not making this a solo expedition. "Oh, belt up and come on," he said, giving Goyle a sharp shove off the wall for good measure.

Goyle clumped loudly along behind Crabbe, his mind too busy to be concerned with stealth. He looked down at the crest on his robes. If that was green, then Potter's eyes definitely weren't. They were _more,_ somehow. They were greener than the grass, even in summer, greener than....

...Well, he'd probably be able to think of something, if the blood would stop rushing from his brain.

"What have we here?"

Crabbe and Goyle froze in their tracks. Their goal was in sight, but blocked by a figure in a flowing black cape. A figure whose voice and face they knew, with a certain, inescapable dread.

"Professor Snape! We were just - ah-"

"No need to overburden yourself with speech, Mister Crabbe," Snape said. His eyes darted downwards, taking in the mistletoe clutched in Crabbe's sweaty fingers and the rapidly-disappearing bulge in Goyle's robes. "The intent behind your nocturnal activities is disgustingly clear. I suggest you return to the dungeons and await your detentions."

Crabbe and Goyle turned and trudged down the corridor. Neither noticed their Head of House ascending the stairs to the Astronomy Tower - or the tabby cat quietly following in his wake.

It was Christmas, after all.

***********

Things were back to normal - well, as normal as things got - in the Slytherin dungeons an hour later.

Crabbe had taken refuge in the shower; thanks to the silencing charm, no-one knew if he'd chosen to drown his sorrows or attack his problem head-on. No-one particularly wanted to know, either.

Goyle had resumed lying on the couch and playing with his food; he was slowly stroking a Chocolate Frog between his thumb and forefinger whilst muttering to himself.

"Green like a caterpillar... no... Like a tasty cucumber...no... Glowing green globes... _no_... Luminous emerald orbs? Maybe..."

***********

**A/N: ** Thanks to Stacy for betaing. Apologies to the Crocodile Hunter, the Weeble division at Hasbro, and Placide Clappeau, author of the hymn "O Holy Night."


End file.
